


Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

by knightinbrightfeathers



Category: Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Asexual Penelope, Demisexual Simon, F/F, Gen, Genderfluid Lucinda, M/M, Pansexual Agatha, all my sexuality headcanons ever, but at least there's some smut so there you go, it also features a more confident mature Simon than usual, it also turned out a lot more like Fangirl than I thought it would, plus Lucas/Lucinda thanks to magicalmaladies, this started out a lot more smutty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 17:01:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3818077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightinbrightfeathers/pseuds/knightinbrightfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let's talk about sex, baby<br/>Let's talk about you and me<br/>Let's talk about all the good things<br/>And the bad things that may be"<br/>-Salt 'N' Pepa, "Let's Talk About Sex"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

"The Mage's duties... in time the heir is called upon... the traditional vigil lasts throughout the night... the sword as the symbol of righteousness... Excalibur, Yael and Sisra, Queen Elizabeth's letter opener..."

Simon stared at his laptop, willing himself not to fall asleep and steadfastly ignoring every curious glance from his classmates. He'd thought, naively, that there couldn't be anything more boring than History at Watford, but Magical History 101 was so far ahead of high school classes in dullness that even the dusts cloud it left in its tracks would have been out of sight. Simon very much wanted to hit his head on the chair in front of him so hard that he passed out, but that would draw attention. He'd thought that, away from the people who'd known him for eight years and mixed with students from every other magical school in Britain plus a few from other countries, he'd be anonymous. However, his face had been splattered on newspapers enough times that he wasn't. And this lesson specifically was absolutely horrible. He _knew_ all this already, for Sprague's sake. He probably knew it much better than the professor did.

When class finally ended, he almost ran out, face hot from the comments he heard several classmates utter. He _wasn't_ stuck up. He'd spent the past year doing a whole lot of reading, coming out of old archives with his shirt dusty and his eyes stinging. If he had to hear about Simon Magus's twelve trials of temptation one more time, he'd shove his wand up someone's nose. The only reason to tolerate MH 101 was to get to the advanced classes and hear people argue about misogyny and changing tradition. Simon sighed. Years spent with some of the smartest kids in Watford had screwed him up a little. He knew more about Impressionism than he'd ever wanted to know, because Penny liked Degas and Renoir; he could quote huge chunks of Neil Gaiman, Amy Tan and Jane Austen because Agatha had lent him her books. And he'd passed his exams with flying colors, because Baz hadn't had it in him to watch Simon fail, even as he plotted against him and sank into despair.

And if he also had some skewed associations to do with lust and poetry, well, that was what the next class was for. To help him figure it out.

Simon ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath before perusing his schedule. A new semester marked the end of his art requirement, the shortest one he had found, and a bunch of new classes. Greenwitch had a funny annual schedule, which fit in with its funny patchwork degrees, but it worked for Simon just fine.

Intimacy, Poetry and Magic with Professor Leah Mhasalkar was in a different building altogether, and started in fifteen minutes. Simon took of at a steady trot, not noticing the appreciative glances he got. He wouldn't have understood them anyways. To Simon, he was still the scrawny, chubby cheeked orphan kid with the hand-me-down pajamas.

\-- -

Professor Mhalaskar was a stocky woman in her forties, with her hair intricately coiled and her blouse neatly ironed. She looked like the kind of person who would offer you stock, not teach you poetry. Her voice, rich, warm, and clear, belied that impression.

"Mhalaskar," she enunciated clearly. It was written on the whiteboard behind her in big capitals. "You can, and will, pronounce it, or you will do your best, just as I do my best to learn all your names.

"Now, tell me. What poets and writers do you associate with sex? Poems, books..."

Simon shrank a little in his chair. Maybe he should have read more of the course reviews, and- holy Houdini, why would anyone associate Little Red Riding Hood with sex?

"All good examples. Very impressive, but what would you say if I told you you associate sex with everything?" The class giggled and muttered. "No, this class is not about sex- or rather, not only. Intimacy comes in many forms, and so does magic. And yet, magic works through what we think it will do. We know that 'crying over spilt milk' will return liquid to its former container, but what if we knew that it made people stop crying? Poetry spells are even more varied and dependent on the caster." The professor tugged the screen over the whiteboard and turned to the computer. "What do you think about intimacy? Physical, emotional..."

The whiteboard lit up with YouTube, and the professor hit play.

"Punch it, Hurb

Yo, I don't think we should talk about this

Come on, why not?

People might misunderstand what we're tryin' to say, you know?

No, but that's a part of life

Come on!..."

A few students laughed, and one girl sang along, dancing in her seat. The whole class responded when the singer said "Come on, how many guys you know make love?", people agreeing or booing. Simon stayed quiet.

"So," Professor Mhalaskar said, when the song was over. The hubbub the song had caused died down. "Why did I show you that song?"

 _To provoke us,_ Simon thought, but didn't say. He spent the rest of the class rapt as Professor Mhalaskar talked about social perception of intimacy and how it affected spellcasting. It was necessary, she said, for them to understand that they could influence what the poetry they chose to use for magic did. It would help them understand the rest of the class.

\-- -

If Simon had a superpower- not magic, but the kind of thing he'd dreamed of as a little kid- he would have chosen understanding. He felt as if he didn't, and maybe he never would. The world seemed to have enormous gaps in it.

"The world doesn't make sense," Agatha said, cutting her green beans delicately. "People don't make sense. Emotions don't make sense. That's how it is. Life is chaotic."

"Yes, that's ever so helpful," Penny said drily. She pointed an orange at Simon. "It's true, though. Figuring out what things mean and who you are is a process, and it's not easy."

"You seem to have it together," Simon pointed out.

"Another year and you, too, will master the second-year's clever mask of self-control and put-togetherness," Agatha said. "Meanwhile, fake it with less aplomb."

"What's up with you?" Penny asked.

"Shakespeare," Agatha said, looking so dreamy that Simon wanted to pinch her. "Midsummer's Night Dream."

"Ill met by florescent, proud Titania," Simon muttered. He shrugged at Agatha and Penny's expressions. "What? I can make Shakespeare puns if I want to."

"Yes, but it was so horrible," Agatha said, and Penny kicked her under the table.

Simon grinned at his turkey sandwich. Penny and Agatha had this thing going on where they flirted and spent a huge amount of time together and possibly were secretly married, but were adamantly "not together". He didn't know whether to believe them or not, but it really wasn't his business, so he just ignored it. He'd once asked Penny if they were sleeping together, in a bout of frustration and possibly jealousy (not that he wanted to be with either of them. Penny was like his sister, and Agatha and him weren't a good fit.) Penny had rather coldly reminded him that she was asexual, thank you. That was before she'd walked him through his own sexuality crisis.

("I can't be gay! I like girls!"

"It's called bisexual, or poly or pansexual."

"But how do I know if I like boys? What if I'm just faking it?"

"Are you?"

"No, but-"

"Simon, I will hit you."

"But what if I don't want to have sex with anyone, Penny, what if I'm fucked up, I haven't had a boner for someone in ages-"

"TMI! Maybe you're ace."

"But sometimes I do get bo-"

"I will frigging kill you, so help me Morgana.")

It was probably a good thing she was going to be a chemist and not a guidance counselor.

"How are this semester's classes, Si?" Agatha asked, leaning over to casually steal one of his French fries.

"Good so far. Although I can't wait till I finish Magical History 101. I'm going to spell the prof's mouth shut if she says one more thing about sacred duty." Simon stole Agatha's apple in retribution and took a bite, grinning at her indignant "Hey!".

"You've got apple juice on your chin, Jean Valjean," Penny said, swiping Agatha's water glass.

\-- -

Simon rested his head on the desk. MH 101 had been cancelled, due to a strange string of coincidences involving a curb, a puddle, a rubber duck and a small cactus. The story had spread so quickly around campus and caused such a fuss that the only place Simon had found to sit quietly was the IP&M classroom. He'd hardly slept last night, the product of an essay he'd put off too long. He'd gone with less sleep before, but it wasn't fun and he needed more coffee. He'd just wait for the last cup, sitting mostly empty next to his feet, to kick in...

"Are you all right?" The voice was amazingly familiar, and Simon jerked his head up to stare, wide eyed, at his former roommate.

"Yes. Hi."

"Hi," Baz said, smiling a little.

They'd parted on good, or at least neutral, terms, last time they'd seen each other. It had been one of those committees-slash-conferences-slash-seminars the Watford School Board had rigged up so they looked like they were doing something and wouldn’t get fired so hard Mt. Vesuvius looked like a birthday candle. They'd both agreed that Watford needed change, and soon, and that meanwhile maybe removing the merwolves to a safer environment- oh, well, if they needed the magical backwash, then maybe a fence around the moat? Yes, and the showers really were a health hazard, not to mention missing, because someone had set off a bath bomb that actually exploded. No, no one knew who it was. Yes, Dev was considering a future in nuclear physics. How nice of the Board to inquire. Would that be all?

It wasn't all, not by a long shot, but after that they hadn't been invited to attend a meeting together. Simon suspected that they'd worried the Board a little.

"You sure you're okay?" Baz asked, and Simon shook himself mentally.

"Yeah. I didn't know you had this class," Simon said. "I've never seen you here."

"I'm the TA, actually. I took it last year." Baz held up a flash drive. "See? Today's presentation."

"You don't have to prove it," Simon said, laughing. "I believe you."

"Good of you. Hey. what're you doing here early? Class starts in twenty minutes."

"Uh, I was supposed to have Magical History 101, but..."

"The rubber duck," Baz said, nodding. "Unfortunate."

"And I thought if I sat here I might manage to gather my thoughts for class and actually speak my mind for once," Simon added.

"You never used to have a problem with that," Baz said, smirking.

"Oh, shove off," Simon said lightly. "Swearing at you and giving my take on Peter Heller are two different things."

"Not _that_ different," Baz said. He glanced at the front of the class, where the computer was, and sat down next to Simon. "I can help you study for class, if you want."

"Isn't that cheating? I mean, if you're the TA..."

Baz shrugged. "Nah. I just do the legwork. It'd be just like having anyone who already took the class talking the material over with you."

"In that case..." Suspicion, old and brittle and mothball-y, battled with sense and hopefulness. Suspicion broke down and went off to the recycling plant. "Sure. When?"

"When would you like?" Baz asked simply.

"Friday morning? Around ten? i don't have that much free time, but this Friday's committee got postponed." The Rainbow Campus Committee, but Simon still prefers keeping that to himself.

"I can do Friday. Ten thirty? At the Maskelyne and Cooke library? There's a really nice spot in the left wing. Third floor."

"It's on," Simon said, narrowly avoiding saying, "it's a date".

Baz's mouth quirked, as if he knew. "I need to make sure the presentation works." He got up, unfolding gracefully. Simon remembered the gangly, sharp boy he'd known, and compared him to the tall, narrow, angular man in front of him. They'd all changed so much.

"I'll come with, if you don't mind. It's awfully boring just sitting here."

"Go ahead," Baz said, waiting as Simon edged out into the aisle between the seats. "So, what's your major?"

"Don't have one. It's a patchwork degree, specific for Mages." Simon made a face. "It's Politickal Science along with Education and Magical Practice and a hodgepodge of everything under the sun. I actually have a requirement class in sword fighting."

"About time, you used to wave that sword around like a loon," Baz said, dodging out of reach of Simon's elbow. "Nuh-uh."

"Bloody prat," Simon muttered. "At least I didn't decimate the bunny population in the English countryside."

"We're all ever so grateful for your noble heroism."

"Likewise. It's wonderful how you've managed not to block out the sun with your big head."

"I like you," Baz said. "I've just decided."

"Foiled again," Simon said. He hopped onto the lectern while Baz fiddled with the computer. "So, what's your major?"

"English."

"What's that like?"

Baz smiled. "Well, you know when you said you'd travel back in time and clock Emily Dickinson on the head?"

\-- -

"You have the strangest taste in friends," Agatha said. She and Penny shared a room, which had probably taken some work and possibly a Wellbelove wing. Now, they were all sitting on the floor, which was pretty roomy, since both Agatha's and Penny's beds were fastened to the walls a meter or two off the floor by a combination of magic and bolts.

"You realize that means something about you and Penny, right?" Simon said. "Besides, you were dating him."

"I was fucking him," Agatha corrected. "Oh, don't look at me like that. It was after we'd broken up. During, it was one bout of tremulous kissing in the woods and you finding us and me feeling like Bella Swan."

"I don't care," Simon said. It was true. He'd been hurt, at the time, but he'd also been relieved. Penny's and Agatha's row had been much worse.

"Okay." That was Agatha to a T. Once something was resolved, she put it behind her, and they'd had this discussion a long time ago. "So he's going to, what? Tutor you?"

"Yeah, I guess. Kind of. He's a lot nicer now that we aren't-"

"At each other's throats?" Agatha offered.

Simon gave her an unimpressed look, a pale imitation of Penny's patent "You Disappoint Me, Simon Oliver Snow" look.

"Who's at each other's throats?" Penny came into the room, arms piled high with textbooks.

"Me and Baz, used to. Now he's the TA at my poetry spells class and he's going to help me with the material."

"Huh," Penny said, dropping the books onto her bed. It was an impressive feat, since they disappeared in midair and reappeared a few centimeters under the ceiling. The girls' room teemed with magic, mostly useful spells like Penny's rabbit hole one.

"Huh?" Simon repeated.

"Losers," Agatha muttered, and Penny blew her a raspberry.

\-- -

"The whole point is taking the poem apart," Baz said. He'd copied it onto paper and cut the paper, so the poem could be reassembled like a jigsaw. Baz's handwriting was the modern equivalent of the calligraphy you'd find in old, dusty scrolls, even and readable. There was a reason Simon used a laptop all the time.

"But it's written as a whole. If we were supposed to break it into bits, wouldn't the poet have written it in paragraphs? You know, like different poems in the same poem?"

"Like last week's?" Baz asked. Simon nodded. "That's the other way round. If the poet does that, they want you to think of the poem as a whole, broken up. Like this," he tapped the page, "it's parts, made into a whole."

"But it reads..." Simon pulled the poem towards himself, careful not to push the pieces of paper apart.

 

            "You love apples                                   So let’s speak             Of apples

 

            Say I were to hold you in my hand       like an apple      round and red

 

            And kiss you                                           in bites                   on the table or

 

            Under the tree                                    where you dropped       _tump_

 

            And you reached up                             in cool shadow         on the grass

 

            And bit back                                            _crunch_ :                        God

 

            I’d laugh                                                 knowing                        dreams

 

            Ask                                                        like this             swallow by swallow"

 

"Yes," Baz said, "that's how it's written, but sometimes the point is reading it how it's not written. See, this way, it doesn't make sense in the last few lines, and the rest does. It's kind of a hint to read it differently."

"I thought the way it reads, all broken up, communicates the speaker's, you know..." Simon shook his head. "What's the word, happiness, or..."

"Bliss?" Baz suggested, softly.

"Joy, I was going to say," Simon said. "But it's not as bright as that, is it. It's a bit dark."

"I wouldn't call it dark," Baz said. "Sexual, yes, but not dark."

"Well," Simon said, shrugging.

"Tell me what you think about next week's, then," Baz said.

Simon blinked. "Next week's?"

"Yes, well," Baz looked at his hands. "If you don't want to meet again we don't have to. I thought this was nice. Helpful."

"It is! It's fun. Maybe not, you know, fun, that's not really the right word."

"Simon." Baz sighed, and Simon nearly bit his tongue in surprise. Although, why shouldn't Baz use his name? They weren't high school rivals anymore. "Just use the words that you have. You won't always find the perfect ones."

"But then people don't understand what I mean."

" _I_ understood what you meant when you were a blithering idiot intent on your own self destruction," Baz said. "The rest can all bloody well try to keep up."

"The only reason you understood is because I used easy vocabulary on you," Simon said, tipping his head to one side and grinning.

"Swearwords?"

"That's the bunny." Simon turned his gaze to the cut-up poem. "So..."

"Read it like this," Baz said. "You love apples, say I were to hold you in my hand, and kiss you, under the tree, and you reached up, and bit back, I'd laugh, ask..."

"You know," Simon said, when Baz's light, clean, clear-cut voice died down. "I thought this class was going to be about intimacy, not just... sex."

"It's not _just_ about sex," Baz said. "Or were you not listening to Mhalaskar's opening drivel?"

"I was, it's just." Simon shrugged. "Sex, it's not something I see as very central in intimacy, or love."

"I see," Baz said carefully. "Have you considered-"

"Demisexual, _actually,_ " Simon said. "Can we get back to the poem?"

\-- -

If you've ever come across your father by surprise, walking from the dining hall after lunch, your father being the man you looked up to for years, not knowing he was your only living relation not separated by two dozen other people, poor health, distance, or in one case, a worrying fascination with mongooses, then you are in the unique position to know how Simon felt. Very unique, in fact. You should probably have a vlog. At least a tumblr. You could post painfully honest late-night confessions or something.

"Father," Simon said, feeling uncomfortably like Luke Skywalker.

"Simon," the Mage said, who probably hadn't seen Star Wars because he hadn't dated an absolute nerd who hid it under designer trench-coats.

The stream of students split around them, creating a little island fenced around by curious stares.

"Were in the way," Simon said.

"Yes. I'm on my way to the Dean's office. The new division between the higher and lower education, you know. We're trying to institute a program."

"I know," Simon, who had been there when the idiot who'd made the suggestion in his posh voice with his serious grey eyes made it, said.

"Ah. How are your studies?"

"Good." Simon silently counted down in his head. Half a minute before it became to awkward to breathe.

"Well, I must go. Good day," the Mage said hurriedly.

"Yeah, you too," Simon muttered. They both made quick getaways.

Crowley, Simon needed a drink.

\-- -

The Rainbow Campus Committee had officially been moved to Thursday evenings, because Husna couldn't do Fridays and Becky needed Friday for all the work she couldn't do on Saturday, so Simon had time for Baz every week. It was a blessing, really, because he couldn't afford to fail and have to do the class all over again, or even a different class. The Mage degree had very strict guidelines and timing and nasty little pockets of a few days in some hellhole where he would have to sacrifice a sheep to Mab. He was working on replacing the sheep with a mutton chop in a sweater, but it was surprisingly difficult.

"I don't really like this kind of writing," Simon said. "It's so old fashioned."

"Poor widdle Simy-wimy having twubble?" Baz asked. He was in an excellent mood.

"I spent a week in an underground library in February reading about iron and magic. I read eight scrolls in terrible cramped handwriting, and all of it could have been said in one sentence: "fucking bad idea, but if you succeed it'll be really cool."" Simon snorted. "Really cool, my arse." Baz coughed suspiciously. Simon glared at him. "That sword's a nightmare."

"My humble apologies. Can we get to work or is it Sad-Sack Hour?"

"You would know better than me," Simon said. "All right, all right. I was thinking about what you said last week, about intimacy and darkness, and you were taking me too literally."

"Stringing you along is fun," Baz said. "Like leaving a cliffhanger."

"Evil," Simon muttered.

"Fun," Baz countered. "So, you don't like John Donne."

"It's okay, just, you know, not that interesting? There's no complexity. It's just straightforward."

"I thought you didn't like it when the poet played games."

"I do," Simon said. "Just because I don't always _get_ it doesn't mean I don't like it. Poetry shouldn't be a statement, it should be art. Like the difference between smacking someone over the head and hiding frogs in his covers that only come to life when he's jerking off."

"That was a good one," Baz said smugly. "I'm glad you remembered it."

"Yes, thank you for making me associate frogs with embarrassment and frustration forever and ever, Baz," Simon said.

"You're welcome. But no, I understand what you mean. I just think there'd a beauty to expressing yourself without hiding it. There's plenty of art in structure, plenty of complexity." Baz tapped the page with his pencil.

 

            "Stay, O sweet, and do not rise!     

            The light that shines comes from thine eyes;        

              The day breaks not: it is my heart,           

            Because that you and I must part. 

               Stay! or else my joys will die,

              And perish in their infancy."

 

Simon hummed thoughtfully. "That third line sounds familiar."

"Abhorsen," Baz said absently. "You bummed my copy off me for months."

"You offered," Simon retorted. "Anyway, the poem just says that he wishes they could stay in bed forever and, I dunno, snuggle."

Baz coughed. "Snuggle. This is a poem about love, hidden in the dark at great risk, which the speaker wants to be able to show, but he can't because he has other obligations. Not cuddles."

"Hidden?" Simon asked curiously. "Is this your take on it, or...?"

Baz pointed to the third verse.

"...That, being well, I fain would stay,/ And that I lov’d my heart and honour so,/ That I would not from him, that had them, go," Simon read.

"Sixteenth and seventeenth century," Baz said. "A lot of Donne's poems are homoerotic. He could hardly have let it be open, could he?"

"Oh." Simon looked over the poem again. "I didn't notice."

"You have to be looking for it, a little," Baz said.

Simon abstained from asking whether Baz had been looking for it.

\-- -

"I just don't think we should be focusing on making a big show out of it," Simon said. "Just a formal apology. Doesn't have to be front page, even. We should make a show behind scenes, pressure the prof in charge, what's-his-face."

"Rupert Salver," Penny said. "We need to go higher than that, he won't listen to us."

"Maybe if we went to the department head," Ennis said, rocking their chair back on its back legs. Simon could _hear_ Penny cringe. "Kate, aren't you in with his assistant?"

"Yeah, Luce is in charge of his involvement with the uni paper, ze does most of the work." Kate looked disgustingly proud of her partner, but then again, everybody liked Luce. You took one look at the person with the magnifying glass sticking out of zir back pocket and zir cat on zir shoulders and melted. "Ze can probably get us a few minutes with the dep head."

"Great. Who wants to be in the group that goes?" Ju, the president, looked around at the mini forest of raised hands. "Get it together, people."

\-- -

"So," Penny said later, when Simon walked her back to the dorms (he insisted. She insisted that she had a taser, and _she_ was walking _him_. They lived in the same dorms anyway.) "Why doesn't Baz ever come to the RCC meets?"

"I don't know, we just talk about poetry together. Why doesn't Agatha?" Simon asked.

"She's straight, isn't she," Penny said.

"Um... no? I'm pretty sure she isn't?" Simon ticked the evidence off on his fingers. "She goes home with people of _every_ gender, she has all those rainbow pins, she started that LGBT Midsummer's Night Dream..."

"Wait, no, backtrack," Penny said.

"The rainbow pins?" Simon winced when she glared at him. "Sorry, sorry. Um, I can't really give you every example, but we went out once and she left with the bartender, who was a girl, and she dated Ennis last year. It didn't work out, or something."

"I," Penny said, "I was awful to her. I was so mean. I didn't know-" she covered her mouth with her hand. "I, I need to go talk to her-"

"When did this happen, Pen?" Simon asked. Agatha had a habit of leaving the scene after a fight.

"Last year," Penny said, completely oblivious to Simon's valiant attempt not to roll his eyes. "Oh, I have to go talk to her." She hesitated. "D'you think she- I mean, the, the sex thing-"

"I'm pretty sure she wouldn't consider it a hardship," Simon said. "Considering she's, you know, head over heels? Like you for her?"

"I can't believe you didn't _say_ ," Penny said, staring at him with big eyes.

"You were so obvious! You were so flirty, you were practically in each other's lap half of the time, you have inside jokes, you borrow each other's scarves and things, you braided her _hair_ in front of me, what was I supposed to think- yeah, go on, run," Simon shouted after Penny's receding back. "Go get her, tiger!"

"Shut up, Simon!" Penny shouted back, to the hoots of "about bloody time, Bunce" coming from the flock of RRC members heading to their separate dorms.

\-- -

"See, this one, you treat each section as a part of the whole _and_ a poem on its own," Baz said.

"Yeah." Simon leaned his face on his hands and looked over the long poem. "I like this one better."

"Really? I thought it wouldn't be to your taste, exactly."

"What's my taste?" Simon asked, turning his head to pin Baz with his gaze.

"E. E. Cummings?" Baz asked, shrugging.

"Muriel Rukeyser," Simon said. "Robert Frost. Tennyson. William Carlos Williams."

"Okay, okay," Baz said, holding up both hands and not even trying not to smile. "Sorry for underestimating you."

"Forgiven," Simon said.

"Pax," Baz said. "So, why do you like this one so much?"

Simon looked at the poem.

 

            "Says to the child

            (and it is the juncture)

            go toward faith,

            go through absence,

            way to belief."

 

or

 

            "Reunified through occupied

            space. His fingers at my lips.

 

            Explosion of black in the opened

            mouth. Five fingers toward

 

            the perforation, from dark

            hair. Toward the void, toward

            the presence in there."

 

He shrugged. "I just do. It means something. Loss, love, loneliness."

"It's kind of sensual," Baz said.

Simon rolled his eyes. "Really."

"Thought that wasn't your thing."

"Did I mention," Simon said, "that I'm not actually the poster boy for purity? I mean, I know you think I'm the Virgin Mary, but come on Baz, we lived in the same room for eight years. You must know something."

"I know lots of things," Baz said. "Just, why _this_ poem specifically, I don't know. You haven't liked any of the others."

"Because...it's being alone, and not being alone, at the same time."

Baz sighed. "It's intimacy, it's just not gushy. You can't do sentiment, can you?"

Simon shrugged. "I told you what I think."

"Thank Devant love spells are outlawed. Imagine what you'd do," Baz muttered.

\-- -

"I want you," Professor Mhalaskar said, "to write your own poem. I'm not going to give you guidelines, except for the theme of love and intimacy, but I will know if you didn't put some effort into it." She raised a hand, and the groans quieted down. "Hey, I'm well aware that most of you aren't, oh, Bill Butler Yeats." She smiled. "Just make something from the heart."

\-- -

"Where's Agatha?" Simon asked.

Penny pursed her lips and shook her head, cheeks pale.

"Oh, Pen..."

"We can't stop sniping at each other," Penny said, quietly. "Can't it just be..."

"Easy?" Simon offered.

"Yeah."

"What did you say?" Simon asked.

"That I knew she wasn't playing with me, now. And she said that I didn't trust her." Penny scrubbed at her eyes. "Oh, we're just horrible together."

"Did you tell her you're in love with her?" Simon asked.

Penny met his eyes. "That's not- it's not _enough_."

"That's how you're supposed to start, isn't it?" Simon asked.

\-- -

 

            "Where true Love burns Desire is Love’s pure flame;

            It is the reflex of our earthly frame,

            That takes its meaning from the nobler part,

            And but translates the language of the heart."

 

"This is," Simon began. "I don't know. Right."

"Yeah, it's pretty good," Baz said, smiling. "I don't think we have much to say about it."

"It kind of says itself, doesn't it? I mean, it's not just _out there_ , it's not obvious, but it's clear. Desire grows out of love, and love purifies desire, makes it holy. Makes us holy."

Baz nodded, smile rueful. "That's about it."

"We've got the end of term assignment," Simon said.

"Already? There's some time left."

"I guess the prof thought we should start early? I mean, I have no idea how to write a poem." Simon made a face.

"Can't help you there," Baz said. "I barely managed to write one I could make myself show anyone."

"Could I read it?" Simon asked. He put one hand on his heart and held up the other. "I'm not going to copy, promise."

"Okay," Baz said hesitantly. He took out his phone and pulled up Evernote. "It's typed. Only way I could make it feel less personal."

"Is it about anyone specific?" Simon asked. "Sorry, that's none of my business."

"It's not," Baz said. "About anyone, I mean," and he handed over his phone.

 

            "Love, must you

            Come in the dark and leave before the moon rises must you

            Embrace me, hold me only in confinement

            Four walls

            Love, hold me in the street, hold me in the light

            Love, must we live in the dark must we

            Learn to see not through others' eyes

            Must we learn not to see

            Love, in the dark I can touch you must I

            Listen

            Love, must you leave before I can tell you this

            Love, I know only to write, never to speak

            Never to touch

            You will never know how much I

            Love, must you leave"

 

"Oh, Baz," Simon said. He handed the phone over. "Do you want to join the LGBT club?"

Baz laughed. "That's not what it means."

"I know. Wanna join anyways? We've got all the other letters, too," Simon coaxed.

"Those are good," Baz said. "Thursdays, right?"

"Yeah," Simon said, and didn't ask why Baz already knew.

\-- -

"So, the head of the uni's media department won't meet with us," Ju said. "We need a better contact than Luce- no offense, Kate."

"None taken," Kate said, looking a little bit offended.

"The head's Norman Fairclough, right?" Baz said. "He works with my dad. He might meet with me, or at least he's more likely to respond to an email or something."

"All in favor of using Basil's aristo connections?" Ju asked. About half of the hands shot up. "All right, people, discuss."

After the verdict came- Baz would officially head the group talking to Fairclough- Ju leaned around Hugo to talk to Simon. "Your boy's all right, Simon."

"I know," Simon said, grinning as proudly as if he'd made Baz himself.

\-- -

"And she said she loved me," Agatha said.

"Uh-huh," Simon said.

"And we had a long talk- we had a lot to talk about- and we both cried a lot, like, a lot. I'm probably a little dehydrated."

"That's great, Aggie."

"And then we made out slowly and passionately for hours."

"Cool."

"Are you even listening?"

"It's three in the morning, Aggie, you're just lucky I don't have a roommate to complain about this phone call."

"But you're happy for us."

"Yes, I am, I love you both. Sleep now."

"Night, loser."

"Your face's a loser."

\-- -

 

            "If I fell

            If I reached out of the window

            And I reached too far

            And I fell

            You would catch me

            You would know that I am reaching towards

            You always know when I am reaching

            Towards you."

 

\-- -

Simon got 88 on his final test for Intimacy, Poetry and Magic. The poems weren't graded.

"That's great," Baz said, when he saw the test. "Well done."

"Bet you got 100 on yours," Simon said, kicking his chair back onto two legs and smiling at Baz.

"Yes, well," Baz said, flipping his hair over his shoulder and sticking his nose in the air.

"Dick."

"I have a thing with poetry," Baz said, carefully. He turned in his chair, not looking at Simon. "I guess these little get-togethers are over now."

"Baz," Simon said. "Now that you're not my tutor, do you want to go out?"

"You," Baz began.

"You know I like straightforward," Simon said, grinning.

"You're an asshole, and I hate you."

"Okay. I hope we can stay friends-"

"Idiot," Baz said, smacking Simon over the head with his test. He stood up in front of him and leaned forward, putting a hand on each of the chair's armrests so the front legs hit the floor with a thump. "No, we cannot stay friends. Can I fucking kiss you?"

"Not _here,_ " Simon said, self-consciously. "This is the library."

"All right, Penelope." Baz rolled his eyes and backed away, extending a hand. "Sweep me off my feet."

\-- -

"I do not love you..." Baz murmured against Simon's shoulder, peppering little kisses over his skin. "As if you were salt-rose, or topaz..."

"Baz..." Simon pushed his hips up, seeking friction, Baz's fingers inside of him.

"Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off." Baz kissed Simon's ear. "I love you as certain dark things are to be loved..." He moved away, spreading Simon's knees further apart. "In secret, between the shadow..."

"...and the soul," Simon whispered. He canted up his hips, letting Baz push inside of him.

"I love you," Baz said, waiting, until Simon nodded and he began to move, "as the plant that never blooms, but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers..." Simon wrapped his arms around Baz's neck, holding them close together. "Thanks to your love..." Simon buried his head where Baz's neck met his shoulder. "A certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in... ah... my body. I love you without knowing how," and now Baz was chanting in rhythm with their motion. “Or when, or from where. I love you, oh, straightforwardly, with complexities or pride, Simon, Simon, Simon..."

Simon cried out into Baz's neck, digging in his teeth, and Baz moaned, holding on until Simon relaxed before coming apart. He panted against Simon's hair, Simon stroking his back.

When he had gotten his breath back and pulled out of Simon, and they'd both cleaned up, and were lying curled up together, Simon asked, "Remember when you said back then that you had a thing with poetry?"

"Mmhm," Baz said, closing his eyes while Simon stroked his hair.

"I didn't realize I was going to hear so much Pablo Neruda," Simon said, laughter in his voice.

"Shut up, you love it."

"I love _you_ ," Simon said.

"Sap," Baz said, kissing Simon's fingers.

\-- -

"So I love you because I know no other way than this: where I do not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that you eyes close as I fall asleep."

"Go to _sleep,_ Baz," Simon muttered, throwing an arm over Baz's chest. "I can hear you even when you're whispering, you know."

"That was the point, dumbass," Baz said, but he went to sleep anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> Poems/songs in order of appearance:  
> "Let's Talk About Sex" by Salt 'N' Pepa  
> "Apples" by Peter Heller  
> (quotes from) "Stay, O Sweet" by John Donne  
> (quotes from) "Absence, Luminescent" by Valerie Martinez  
> "Desire" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge  
> Baz's poem  
> Simon's poem  
> "Sonnet xvii" by Pablo Neruda (as Baz's pillow talk)


End file.
